Tags » Marguerite Duras

Don't cry anymore

She says: Look. She parts her legs, and in the hollow between you see the dark night at last. You say: It was there, the dark night. 43 more words

Literature

that death-derived certainty

She opens her eyes, says: Stop lying. She says she hopes she’ll never know anything, anything in the world, the way you do. She says: I don’t want to know anything the way you do, with that death-derived certainty, that hopeless monotony, the same every day of your life, every night, and that deadly routine of lovelessness. 6 more words

Literature

realize its infernal power

You look at this shape, and as you do so you realize its infernal power, its abominable frailty, its weakness, the unconquerable strength of its incomparable weakness. 6 more words

Literature

the dark of her sex

Night after night you enter the dark of her sex, almost unwittingly take that blind way. Sometimes you stay there; sleep there, inside her, all night long, so as to be ready if ever, through some involuntary movement on her part or yours, you should feel like taking her again, filling her again, taking pleasure in her again. 16 more words

Literature

the moistness of her body

One evening you do it, as arranged, you sleep with your face between her parted legs, up against her sex, already in the moistness of her body, where she opens. 10 more words

Literature

heliotrope and citron

Young. She’d be young. In her clothes and hair there’d be a clinging smell, you’d try to identify it, and in the end your experience would enable you to do so. 20 more words

Literature

shed its load of tears

You wouldn’t have known her, you’d have seen her everywhere at once, in a hotel, in a street, in a train, in a bar, in a book, in a film, in yourself, your inmost self, when your sex grew erect in the night, seeking somewhere to put itself, somewhere to shed its load of tears. 6 more words

Literature